Marseilles
by Miscellaneous G
Summary: A young girl arrives on Baker Street claiming to be Sherlock's daughter. They are alike in every way, but is that necessarily a good thing? Rated T for safety.


**Hey everyone! Pretty short one to start off with. Sorry about the blunt start, it's meant to be little snippets from John's point of view, so it'll be a little weird in places. There may be a little romance involved, but it isn't central to the piece, so I didn't put it in genres. Please please please review!**

Sherlock was lying on the couch, teaching himself to juggle with several of his mother's antique crystal paperweights and a loaded gun. "Sherlock, for God's sake- oh, never mind. Breakfast?" Just then, the doorbell rang.

Life is comprised of these moments, little decisions, tiny details that can change your life forever. You step out into the street, get hit by a bus, and lose your legs; you misplace your ticket to the concert of the decade, and at the movie you see instead, you meet the girl of your dreams. This doorbell was kind of like that. You might say that this single E-flat tone was the most important sound I've ever heard.

Sherlock looked at me pointedly. "Client." I sighed and stomped down the stairs, throwing it open irritably. "Listen, we're a bit-" I stopped dead in my tracks when I looked down and saw her.

Standing at the door was a girl, late teens, early twenties maybe. She was short, a little over five feet tall, and quite small. Her hair was dark brown and glossy, and stood out from her head in a tangle of curls. Her full lips and high cheekbones made her seem glamorous and world-weary. When she looked up, eyes wide with surprise at my unfriendly manner, I recognized them immediately; the startling, icy blue, disconnected and without a trace of apprehension.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" she asked me. She didn't seem like our other clients, trembling, crying, or doe-eyed. She was businesslike, harried. Her voice was deep, and she spoke with an accent I couldn't quite place.

"Er, no. John Watson. His colleague."

"Right, right. Well, my name is Juliet Martín, and I've come to speak with Mr. Holmes about a very urgent matter. It is extremely important." She wore a stretchy, navy blue dress, high heels, and carried an expensive-looking black leather purse. She could be government. Seemed like they were getting younger and younger these days.

"Suppose it's another 'matter of national security'?" I groaned.

She smiled wryly. "No, Doctor Watson, not national security. Personal security, most definitely." She blew right past me and ran up the stairs.

When she got to the door, Juliet stopped dead, staring at Sherlock, who had a box of nicotine patches in one hand and a doughnut in the other. "Yeah, what?" he mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate. "Government, right? But no, you're too nicely dressed. Nobody wears shoes like that for federal field work. So… small business heiress looking for… stolen money, files."

She grinned. "Your reputation precedes you. No, Mr. Holmes, this is a personal matter concerning you. My name is Juliet Martín. I think you might recognize the surname?"

This got his attention. I swear, his ears actually pricked up. "Yes…"

"Well, this might explain it a bit better than I can." She pulled a manila folder out of her purse and handed it to Sherlock. He stood there are flipped through it for what seemed like ages; he was normally such a fast reader.

"So, what do you want?" he snapped. "It's not as if you're five years old."

"It is not what I want, but what the British government wants. I was, unfortunately, discovered renting a flat in Edinburgh with a fake ID. It's this or the state youth authority, which is not happening. So, what I'm proposing to you is, not a guardianship, but a flatshare. I know he just moved out to get married, it's all over the papers. You've got space. So, here's first month's rent," she said, pulling a wad of money out of her purse. "How 'bout it, then? You keep me out trouble with the feds, I'll make you real food." She eyed his Bismarck distastefully.

"Wait, WHAT?" I blurted. "Will someone please explain what's going on here? SHE is your new flatshare? Someone you've only just met? And what's all this about the youth authority?"

Sherlock looked at me like I'd just dribbled on my shirt. "She's my… daughter. And a minor. Which makes me responsible for her. Therefore, flatshare."

It was at once unbelievable and completely obvious. For one thing, the hair, the eyes, the cheekbones, the obvious intelligence, the disconnected manner in the face of meeting her absentee father; all classic Sherlock. On the other hand, the thought of Sherlock having a child seemed a bit… ridiculous. Grotesque. Possibly harmful. Not to mention, that would necessitate at least one instance of…. Well, you know. So, yeah, ridiculous. "But- but- you- huh?" I slurred. Sherlock gave me a cutting look and interrupted me.

"But, before you get too comfortable, I want a paternity test, Ms. Martín. Your mother was a tricky one. Not to mention, she wasn't a terribly… monogamous woman," Sherlock deadpanned. I cleared my throat, but he paid no attention.

Juliet's eyes turned to flint. "You hardly knew her. You'll refrain from casting aspersions. Particularly since the two of you met in a smack den. But I agree. Scientific confirmation is always best." She turned to the door, then sidled around.

"Oh, and Mr. Holmes? You should probably start calling me Juliet."


End file.
